Rare Traits (The Rare Traits Trilogy Book I)

by David George Clarke

Chapter 31

  John was very happy with the way the art exhibition was going - two paintings sold at the Friday evening reception and four more the following morning, the first day of public viewing. At this rate, he might not have to remain at the Keswick Galleries for much longer. He hated exhibitions.

  It was now Saturday afternoon and the hall was starting to fill again after the lunch break. Returning from the coffee bar a few steps along the road, John saw a tall, well-groomed man in his early fifties studying the largest of his four unsold landscapes. He put down the paper coffee cup and walked over to the man.

  “Hello, I’m John Andrews. Can I help in any way?”

  The man straightened and turned, a look of pleasure on his face.

  “You’re the artist who has produced these masterpieces?” replied the man, holding out his hand and shaking John’s firmly. “I’m delighted to meet you. The name’s Hastings. Christopher Hastings.”

  He turned to the display.

  “They are truly remarkable, Mr Andrews, I don’t think I have ever seen the Lakes reproduced on canvas with such skill. I’m in awe.”

  “Thank you, Mr Hastings, you are very kind.”

  “Kindness has nothing to do with it; these are the work of a master. Now, I take it these wretched little stickers indicate that six of these paintings have already been sold?”

  “They do, but there are still four remaining.”

  “Damn, I thought that was the case. I should have come earlier if I’d known.” He paused, reflecting on one of the reserved paintings for a moment. “God, I really love that one of Windermere.”

  He shook his head, accepting the loss.

  “Never mind, the unsold ones are equally as brilliant. I especially like this sunset view of Ullswater. One of my favourite lakes, you know. Would you object if I bought all four?”

  “Object?” said John, trying to disguise his delight. “Certainly not, Mr Hastings. It’s a free world and you are welcome to buy as many as you wish. There is only one constraint that the organisers of the exhibition have imposed, which is that all the paintings remain here on display until the exhibition is over. After that, they can be dispatched by courier to wherever you choose.”

  “Not a problem, dear fellow. But I wouldn’t trust them to a courier; I’ll send one of my chaps up with a car to fetch them.”

  John picked up his order book. “What sort of deposit would you like to leave? Most people seem content to leave about a quarter of the price.”

  “If you’re happy to take a cheque, I’ll pay in full right now,” smiled Hastings. “I want to make sure of my purchase. And can we put one of those little stickers on each of them? I don’t want to raise someone else’s hopes by making them think they’re still available.”

  John removed the sheet of stickers from the back of the order book and placed one next to each of the four paintings.

  “There we are. Each one is now secure. Might I ask for a contact address in case there’s any delay?”

  “Yes,” replied Hastings. “But let me write your cheque first.”

  “Thanks,” said John as he glanced at the sum on the cheque. He smiled to himself. A very successful day. Perhaps exhibitions weren’t so bad, after all.

  He opened his order book, his pen poised. “Address?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Hastings, “I’ll give you a card.” He put his hand to his trouser pocket but stopped as he turned to the paintings again. “The information leaflet says you have a gallery in Grasmere. I assume you have more of your masterpieces on display there?”

  John laughed. “There are many paintings there, Mr Hastings, yes.”

  “Are they all landscapes like these?”

  “No, there are also many portraits.”

  Hastings’ eyes danced with joy. “Portraits! My other weakness.”

  He clasped his hands in front of him. “Mr Andrews. Would it be possible to visit your gallery? I’d really like to see more of your work. As well as buying works for my personal collection, I also want to adorn the reception areas of my company with something special instead of the bland derivative stuff that the so-called interior designers foist on us. I could be in the market to buy quite a few.” He nodded encouragingly at John.

  John shrugged, smiling as he did. “No time like the present, Mr Hastings. If you like, we could go there now; it’s not too far. I’ve certainly finished here for the day, thanks to you.”

  Hastings beamed at John like an excited child. “Could we really? That would be wonderful. I was hoping you would agree since I have very limited time. I have to get back to London tonight. We can go in my car, if you like. My driver is waiting along the road.”

  “Thanks,” said John, “but I need to get my car back to my wife for shortly after five. She has to collect our daughters from a friend in Ambleside.”

  “Ah, the responsibilities of family life. I remember it well, and yet it’s over all too soon. Before you know it, your daughters will be borrowing the car rather than asking for a lift.”

  “Fortunately I have a few years before that happens,” smiled John.

  He gathered his things and headed for the door with Hastings, waving merrily to Roland McIntyre as he passed him. He couldn’t fail to notice the envy on McIntyre’s face, but he kept his smile fixed.

  “Where’s your car, Mr Andrews?” asked Hastings as they walked down the steps to the street. “Jeffrey, my driver, will pick me up here as soon as I call him.”

  “It’s parked right behind the hall. I’ll pull out into this road from that turning down there.” He pointed along the street.

  John left Hastings calling his driver and walked buoyantly to his car, taking out his phone to call Lola as he did. He paused, looked at the keypad and changed his mind. He wanted to see the delight on her face when he told her how successful the day had been.

  As he pulled out on to the main road, he saw Hastings standing by the rear door of a black Porsche Cayenne. Hastings waved, indicating that John should pull in front to lead the way, and then jumped into his car.

  John took the A591 that led out of the town in the direction of Thirlmere and Grasmere while the Porsche followed close behind. Looking in the rearview mirror, he realised he could see nothing of the car’s occupants, its dark glass windows and the angle of the windscreen rendering the view opaque.

  Shortly after they passed the right turn that led to John and Lola’s cottage, there were signs indicating a left turn onto a minor road that led to Threlkeld. As they drew level with the junction, John noticed the Porsche’s headlights suddenly flashing a few times. It slowed, pulling onto the tarmac surface of the corner a few yards beyond the junction. John slowed and pulled to a halt about twenty yards beyond, wondering what the problem was.

  He saw the rear nearside door of the Porsche open and Hastings stagger out clutching his mouth and his stomach as he ran towards the wooden fence that bordered the road. John jumped out of the Volvo and ran back to where Hastings was now almost kneeling and apparently vomiting. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the driver’s door open and the driver start to climb out.

  “Mr Hastings, whatever’s wrong?” called John, putting a hand on his shoulder and bending over him.

  Hastings waved an arm behind him, as if to indicate that John should keep clear while he continued to retch into the grass.

  “Mr, um, Hastings?” It was the driver who had walked up behind John.

  Suddenly Hastings stood up and turned round, all the earlier geniality gone from his face. He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his mouth.

  “Actually, Mr Andrews, I’m perfectly well. I decided that here was far enough.”

  “Far enough?” said John, puzzled. “Far enough for what? I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, Mr Andrews, far enough. You see, I don’t really have any interest in going to your gallery, despite the attraction of viewing your work.”

  John took a step back and frowned. “Then
what are we doing here? What’s going on?”

  “Quite simple, Mr Andrews. I came to see you today because I need you to come with me.” He glanced around to check that they were sufficiently hidden from any passing traffic by the large body of the Porsche and the open door.

  “Go with you? What do you mean? Why should I want to go with you?”

  “I’ll explain it all in due course, Mr Andrews, but for the moment, I’d appreciate it if you would get into the car.”

  “I most certainly won’t! I have no inten–” John felt a prod in the small of his back and spun round. The driver, who had been joined by a second man who must have been in the front passenger seat of the car, was pointing a gun at him.

  John involuntarily lifted his hands away from his body while turning his head back to Hastings. “Have you gone mad? I think you’ve made a big mistake. Who do you think I am?”

  “No mistake, Mr Andrews, I know exactly who you are,” replied Hastings calmly. “Now, please, get into the car. We don’t want any unpleasantness.”

  “Unpleasantness? Are you intending to shoot me if I refuse? They’ll hear the gunshot echoing around the valleys all the way to Ambleside. You’d never get away with it!”

  “Look at the gun, Mr Andrews. It’s silenced. If Jeffrey were to fire it, there would only be the slightest of pops,” said Hastings curtly. “So, in the car please, before I’m forced to ask Jeffrey to shoot away one of your kneecaps. A very painful injury, I can assure you. It would certainly make your journey most uncomfortable.”

  His eyes blazed with the look of a man clearly used to getting his own way and to having his orders followed immediately.

  “I suggest you get in. Now!”

  “Martin,” he called to the second man from the car. “It would be better if Mr Andrews’ car weren’t quite so prominent. Follow us in it for a couple of miles until there’s a suitably quiet spot.”

  The man called Jeffrey waved the gun at John while standing sufficiently out of reach to prevent John even thinking of trying to knock the gun from his hand. John still didn’t move. An increasingly exasperated Hastings took a step towards him and looked him coldly in the eye. “Mr Andrews, if the threat of injury doesn’t worry you, before I instruct Jeffrey to go through with it, perhaps the threat of injury to your wife and family will change your mind. I can easily send Martin here over to Grasmere to pay your wife a visit.”

  John took a step towards Hastings. “You hurt my family, Hastings and I’ll–” He stopped as the gun was again prodded firmly into his back.

  “Really, Mr Andrews,” growled Hastings, “you’re in no position to start threatening me. Now get into the car; we’re wasting time!”

  John reluctantly climbed into the car, taking the seat behind the driver. Hastings took the gun from Jeffrey and climbed into the front passenger seat. As Jeffrey closed the driver’s door, John heard the locks click. He was trapped.

  Both cars swung in tight U-turns and headed off along the minor road to Threlkeld. About halfway along the four-mile stretch of road, Jeffrey pulled the Porsche over to the right by a metal gate. Martin pulled up behind and got out. Jeffrey opened his door and looked back.

  “Boss says that’ll do, Mart, we don’t want that heap o’junk slowin’ us down. Get in the back here with Andrews.”

  Martin slammed the Volvo’s door and hurried over to the Porsche.

  John eyed him warily as he settled onto the seat beside him. He was a big man in his early thirties who looked as if he spent many hours working weights. John could see that he was in no position to throw a damaging punch in the restricted space of the rear of the car, so he slid against the door, keeping his distance.

  “Where the hell are we going, Hastings? When are you going to tell me what’s going on?” said John as the car sped off.

  Hastings pulled down his sun visor and looked at John in its mirror.

  “I told you, Mr Andrews, all in good time.”

  “Look,” said John, “my wife’s expecting me back at the gallery. She needs the car.” As he said the words, John realised how irrelevant they sounded, but he was clutching at straws.

  “Yes, she’ll probably be calling you quite soon. I think perhaps you’d better give me your mobile phone. Martin, take Mr Andrews’ phone, would you?”

  John patted his pocket and remembered he’d left the phone in his car.

  He raised his arms and let Martin search for it.

  “Doesn’t seem to be here, boss,” said Martin.

  “What have you done with your phone, Mr Andrews?” said Hastings, turning round to look directly at John.

  “I left it in my car,” he said.

  “Oh, well, no harm done,” replied Hastings, smiling. “Your wife will just have to fume at you for not turning up and not answering your phone. She’ll think you’ve gone off for the afternoon with your girlfriend.”

  John glared at him disdainfully.

  They drove on in silence. After about half an hour, Hasting’s phone rang.

  “Peterson. Yes, successful.” He glanced at his watch. “By about eleven, I should think, depending on the traffic. Yes, certainly we’ll begin right away; there are several confirmatory tests I want you to run immediately.”

  He ended the call and stared through the window.

  “I thought you said your name was Hastings,” said John.

  “I’m a bit like you, Mr Andrews,” came the reply, “not quite what I seem.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said John.

  “I think you know very well, Mr Andrews, but we can discuss all that later. As far as Christopher Hastings is concerned, he’s someone I pull out of the cupboard when I want to throw up a bit of a smoke screen. Someone in the exhibition hall might have overheard our conversation, you see, and heard my name.”

  “So your purchase of the paintings was all a charade. Hastings doesn’t exist and the cheque’s a fake.”

  “I needed to get your attention and win your confidence, Mr Andrews. What better way to do that than to flatter you by pretending to buy some of your work?”

  “So who are you?”

  “Wallingford Neville Peterson, Mr Andrews. Wally to my friends.”

  “I’ll stick to Peterson,” snarled John. “When are you going to tell me where we are going and what’s going on?”

  “As I keep telling you, Mr Andrews, all in good time. You’re perfectly capable of reading the road signs, so you’ll know where we are. It’s quite a long journey; I suggest you sit back and relax.”

  By ten in the evening, they were on the M25 going around London. At the Leatherhead exit they headed south in the direction of Horsham. About two miles north of Horsham, they turned right, now heading west on a series of country lanes.

  What concerned John more than the calm self-assuredness of his captor was that apart from the initial play-acting as Hastings, he’d made no attempt to hide his own identity and nor did he seem concerned that John could work out exactly where he was. It could only mean that Peterson had no intention of letting him go.

  They entered an area of dense woodland and soon the headlights picked out a brick wall running along the left side of the road. At least nine feet high, it was topped with several rows of razor wire with signs informing anyone crazy enough to try to climb over that it was electrified. There were security cameras every fifty yards. After half a mile, the wall curved back from the road to reveal a large gateway with a guardhouse and metal sliding gates. A sign to the left of the gateway announced that the premises behind all the security was the home of Peterson Biotech.

  The driver lowered his window as a guard walked over to them. “Everything quiet, Sims?” called Peterson across the driver.

  “All fine, sir,” replied the guard. He turned and waved to another guard in the guardhouse and the gate slid silently open.

  They drove down a long and curving, tree-lined avenue. In the distance, John could make out a low-rise steel and glass building. Softly lit
with a dull purple glow, it appeared to be hovering in the air against the darkness of the countryside. About two hundred yards from the building, the car turned right down a narrower avenue and they entered the gravelled forecourt of a large Victorian house.

  The exterior of the house and the edges of the forecourt were lit by a series of soft yellow lights. As the car came close to the house, two powerful spotlights were triggered, flooding the area around the car to an almost daylight brightness.

  The driver popped the locks and both he and Martin jumped out of the car. Martin opened Peterson’s door while Jeffrey opened John’s.

  “Here we are at last, Mr Andrews,” said Peterson, walking round the car and handing the gun to Jeffrey. “Home, sweet home. Let’s go inside, shall we?”

  John got out slowly, stiff from the journey.

  Martin walked ahead up a short flight of steps that led to the main door while Peterson nodded to indicate that John should follow. Jeffrey brought up the rear, the gun still clasped in his hand. As Martin reached the door, it was opened from the inside by another man of similar bouncer build, his face expressionless as he stood aside to let them in.

  They entered a large circular hall with a flight of stairs curving up from the left to the upper floor. There was a pair of wooden doors opposite the entrance, while other doors led off the hall to both left and right.

  “Mr Andrews,” said Peterson genially, “I imagine you would like to use the facilities before we have our little chat. Martin, show our guest the way, would you?”

  Martin turned to John and tossed his head in the direction of a door under the stairs. He walked ahead and opened it to let John in. John noticed that inside the small washroom there were no windows, nor was there a lock on the door.

  He stared into the mirror above the washbasin, frowning darkly at his reflection as he splashed water onto his face. He had not spoken a word since they’d left the Lakes, but his mind had been racing throughout the journey, trying to decide exactly what this Peterson person might know and how he might have found out. He had a strong feeling that his abduction was connected to Claudia Reid and Ced Fisher, a feeling reinforced by his arrival at a biotech company. They must have worked out something about his DNA, but exactly what he’d no idea.

  A banging on the door interrupted his thoughts.

  “Wait a moment!” he shouted. He used the toilet, washed his hands and opened the door, almost bumping into Martin as he did. He glanced around the hall. Peterson had disappeared, but Jeffery, who was still holding the gun, was standing a few feet away, while the third guard was by the main door.

  “This way,” said Martin, nodding towards the double doors. He opened one and indicated that John should walk in ahead of him. He and Jeffrey followed him into the room.

  The door opened onto a large sitting room and library stretching over forty feet to double glass doors at the far end. An ornate fireplace was the centrepiece of one long wall, with three cream leather sofas in front of it arranged around a glass coffee table. Bookshelves covered most of the opposite wall and a huge wooden desk occupied the space in front of them. On either side of the fireplace more double doors led onto a softly lit terrace. A lawn stretched away into the night beyond it.

  As they walked into the room, John saw Peterson standing behind the desk next to a dark-haired woman of about forty. She was dressed in a black, knee-length skirt, black tights, black court shoes and a mid-blue silk blouse. With her hair pulled back into a large jewelled clip, she looked like a lawyer, but then John noticed a white laboratory coat thrown casually over the back of a chair next to her. She was looking over Peterson’s shoulder at a sheaf of papers he was reading. Peterson looked up.

  “Ah, Mr Andrews, please come in. Let me introduce you to a lady you’ll be having quite a few dealings with : Dr Hannah Frobisher.”

  The woman walked towards John, a wide smile on her face.

  “Mr Andrews, I can’t tell you how delighted I am to meet you.” She held out her hand as her eyes roamed over John’s face. “Remarkable,” she said, “quite remarkable. We have so much to talk about.”

  John ignored her outstretched hand. “I can assure you, Miss Frobisher, that the feeling is anything but mutual. As far as I’m concerned, we have nothing to talk about.”

  He turned towards Peterson. “Well, Peterson, we’re here, so where’s the explanation you promised me?”

  “Indulge me a few moments more, Mr Andrews. You must be parched after that long drive. What can I get you to drink?” He held up his own glass, into which he’d already poured a generous measure of whisky. “Whisky? Brandy?”

  John realised that he was very thirsty, but the last thing he wanted was alcohol.

  “A soda water,” he said.

  “Certainly,” smiled Peterson. He bent to a small refrigerator under a side table and retrieved a can of soda. Picking up a cut-glass tumbler from the side table, he emptied the can into it. He glanced up at the two guards. “You two can take your places on the terrace.”

  Martin moved to the French windows to the left of the fireplace, opened one and walked outside, closing the door behind him. Jeffrey did the same to the door at the far end of the room. They both stood facing into the room, their hands clasped in front of them and their legs apart.

  Peterson walked over to John to hand him his drink.

  “There, Mr Andrews, my two guard dogs are safely ensconced outside where they can see everything you do, but, thanks to the double glazing, they will not be able to hear a word of our conversation. I’m afraid I thought it necessary to post them there in case you got any silly ideas into your head while we are talking.”

  He turned and pointed to the sofas. “Please, make yourself comfortable; we have much to discuss.”

  “We certainly do,” said John, taking the drink but otherwise not moving. “I demand to know what’s going on. Why have I been kidnapped and brought to this house?”

  “Oh, Mr Andrews, kidnapped is such a strong word,” smiled Peterson.

  “What else would you call it? I’ve been threatened and brought here against my will. I demand an explanation.”

  “Please, Mr Andrews, let’s sit and discuss this, shall we? It’s been a long journey.”

  John glanced at the guards staring at him from the terrace and suddenly felt very tired. He walked to the nearest sofa and sat down. Hannah Frobisher followed him and sat on the sofa at right angles to his, gazing at him with a look of wonder. As her eyes darted from his face to his hands and his hair and back again, he felt like a specimen under a microscope.

  Peterson smiled, pleased with the small victory, and sat on the sofa opposite John. He leaned forward, took a sip of his whisky, and placed the glass on the table.

  “Now, Mr Andrews, let me answer some of your questions. I have brought you here because you are a very unusual man. You have very rare traits. I want us to work together to learn about those traits for our own mutual benefit and I am sure for the benefit of mankind.”

  John stared at him in stunned amazement. “Look, Peterson, or whatever your name is, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. I’m an artist, not a businessman. I don’t see how my paintings are going to save the world.”

  Peterson smiled condescendingly. “Mr Andrews, I didn’t say anything about your paintings. You really are being far too modest, and if I may say so, rather coy. We all know your traits include far more than your painting, skilled though it is. You’re a very special person, perhaps even a one-off. Isn’t that correct, Mr Andrews?”

  “Whatever makes you think that? Apart from a certain ability to paint, there’s nothing special about me at all, I can assure you.”

  “Mr Andrews. Your constant denial of what we both know to be true is becoming tiresome. Now, you have something I want and I’m willing to pay you handsomely for it. Very handsomely, indeed. Enough to keep you in the lap of luxury for the rest of your life.”

  He paused and laughed. “Of course, that’s a
rather bold promise.”

  “You’re mad,” said John as he made to stand up. Peterson raised a hand to stop him.

  “Please, Mr Andrews. I’m anything but mad. But I am getting a little bored with your attitude. I can only assume that it comes from so many years of having to keep things to yourself. How many years is it, Mr Andrews? I’m intrigued to know.”

  At this question, Hannah Frobisher leaned forward expectantly.

  John kept his face as deadpan as he could and said nothing. Exactly how much did the man know?

  Peterson sighed in exasperation. “OK, Mr Andrews, I’ll lay my cards on the table. I know that you are not what you seem to the rest of the world. I’m aware – although I found it hard to believe at first and I must admit that now I come to say the words out loud, they sound absurd – but I’m aware that you have what is sometimes dramatically referred to as the secret of eternal youth.”

  He paused to watch John’s reaction, but there was nothing.

  “Isn’t that correct, Mr Andrews?” There was now an edge to his voice. “You don’t age, do you? You are never ill? Come on, Mr Andrews, there’s no point in continuing to deny it.”

  John’s face remained impassive, although his mind was anything but still. How could this man have possibly found out his secret?

  When John continued to say nothing, Peterson drained his glass of whisky and stood. “You know, you’re really playing very hard to get.”

  He walked over to the side table to pour another whisky from a crystal decanter. “Are you sure you won’t have something stronger than soda water? It might help you find your voice.”

  When he sat down again, he looked at John expectantly.

  “Well, Mr Andrews, do you have anything to say? Or are you going to maintain this ridiculous silence?”

  John sighed, held his arms out to either side and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know what to say. I feel as if I’ve become part of a second-rate movie. I’ve been kidnapped by you and two heavies straight out of central casting and brought here to this house that seems to be attached to some sort of laboratory. You then come up with some crazy story that I’ve got … what did you call it? … eternal youth? You should be certified, Peterson. You’re insane!”

  As he was talking, he was watching Peterson’s eyes boring into him. They were cold and ruthless.

  Peterson took another sip of his whisky, sat back and nodded.

  “You’re good, Mr Andrews, very good. Then again, I can imagine you’ve had a lot of practice. But I have more to tell you. Explanations. Perhaps once you’ve heard them, you’ll drop this pathetic charade.”

  He leaned forward. “The reason I’m so confident, Mr Andrews, is that there have been some tests carried out on your DNA, tests that have yielded remarkable results, possibly the most profound results in the history of science. They explain why you are never ill and why you do not age. But what’s really exciting are the opportunities that this knowledge gives us.”

  He smiled. “It occurs to me that you must have absolutely no idea of why you have these profound characteristics. After all, you probably come from a time when science was hardly sophisticated. But you must have wondered over the years, surely? Well, Mr Andrews, I feel very honoured and privileged to be the one to explain it to you.

  “Actually,” he continued grandly, “it’s very fitting that I should be the one. After all, it was my organisation, my money and my flair that have brought together some of the world’s greatest scientific minds and given them unrestrained opportunities to test their ideas and theories. It was my vision, Mr Andrews, that has resulted in the breathtaking discovery of the significance of your DNA.”

  He took another sip of whisky, giving John time to absorb his dramatic words of self-importance.

  “The answer, Mr Andrews,” he continued after a few moments, “is simply this. You have what appears to be the perfect immune system. You understand what that means, I assume?”

  “I know what an immune system is,” said John dismissively.

  “Of course you do, but a perfect immune system? Do you understand the implications of that?” He held up a hand and smiled. “I’m not testing you, Mr Andrews, I don’t expect you to answer. Let me explain. A perfect immune system is one that can fight any disease. It explains why you have never been ill. Nothing on the bacteria or virus level can touch you. Your body can see off any and all invaders. But that’s just the beginning. Your body, because of your immune system, has conquered the deterioration of cellular material that results in ageing. Your system is capable of repairing any damage to your cells, or perhaps even preventing that damage in the first place. Think of the implications that this could have. A whole new avenue is now available for fighting disease, and for combatting ageing. You are living testimony to that, Mr Andrews – living testimony! The time has now come for the rest of the human race to reap the benefits as well.”

  John was stunned. After nearly six hundred years, he finally had an answer. Over the last thirty years, as the understanding of DNA had deepened and more and more articles and TV documentaries had improved public awareness, he had increasingly suspected that his genetic make-up was at the heart of his ‘condition’. But as a non-scientist, his overall understanding was hazy. Suddenly, this scheming man sitting opposite him had explained it all. His mind was racing, trying to absorb what Peterson had told him, but also trying to think of a way of convincing Peterson that he had seized the wrong person.

  “And you say,” he interrupted, “that you got all of this absurd-sounding information from my blood sample? I’m sorry to disappoint you but I haven’t given a blood sample to anyone, so I suspect that no matter how profound you think your results are, I’m not the person you are looking for. It’s a case of mistaken identity.”

  “I didn’t say blood sample, Mr Andrews,” replied Peterson, trying to sound patient. “I said we tested your DNA. Cast your mind back a few weeks. You gave a buccal swab sample. I don’t know why; you must have been arrested for something. But the important thing is that you gave a sample that the police automatically sent for profiling. The results of that profiling were very profound, totally different from anything seen previously, and they inspired the scientist who carried out the tests to seek you out. That scientist knew the findings were important, but didn’t know why.”

  “I admit that I did give a sample to the police some weeks ago following a minor, ridiculous incident,” agreed John reluctantly. “I think this is where the confusion must come from. My sample must have been mixed up with another person’s. This DNA you’re talking about isn’t mine; it’s someone else’s. Somehow my name has got on the sample.”

  Peterson nodded. “I agree that mix-ups can happen, but not in this case. You see, we tested another sample from you. There is no doubt you are the source of the DNA material.”

  John shook his head. “The swab that idiot police officer took is the only sample I’ve given to anyone. So these results you’re talking about can’t be from me.”

  Peterson smiled patronizingly. “You really don’t understand much about DNA, do you? The second sample was from an envelope. Your saliva was on the seal where you licked it.”

  “What envelope? How did you get hold of it?”

  “How we got hold of it, Mr Andrews, doesn’t matter,” said Peterson dismissively. “The fact is that it indisputably came from you and your DNA, which matched the original police sample, was on it.”

  Peterson raised his glass and emptied the rest of the whisky. “So now, Mr Andrews, I think you must agree that all your protestations have been answered. There is no mix-up, no mistake. You are the source of the DNA I’ve been describing and you are exactly as I have described – you are never ill and you are far older than one would infer from your looks, perhaps immensely older.”

  A rustle from the direction of Hannah Frobisher caught John’s attention and he glanced at her. Her eyes were now even wider at the mention that John might be �
��immensely’ old.

  John refused to give Peterson the satisfaction of agreeing that he was right. He shrugged wearily. “So what do you want from me, Peterson? Why have you kidnapped me?”

  “Mr Andrews, it’s very late and you’ve had a tiring time of it this evening. I can understand why you’ve been reluctant to discuss your particular characteristics with me; you’re used to hiding the way you are from others. That’s perfectly understandable. This is why I resorted to the measures I took this afternoon: I knew you would never have come with me willingly. But now your secret is known – now there is an explanation – you must realise you are suddenly a very valuable commodity. I couldn’t have you disappearing, which is one reason I decided it was necessary to ensure you are protected.”

  “Protected! This isn’t protection. It’s imprisonment!”

  “It’s for your own safety, Mr Andrews. Imagine the problems you would have if your special characteristics became common knowledge.”

  “How I deal with my problems is my business and I hardly think your motives are as unselfish as you would have me believe. If you were concerned about my welfare, you wouldn’t have resorted to kidnap and threats. There’s also my wife. She’s going to be beside herself with worry by now. I insist that you let me call her. If my car has been found, she will have called the police.”

  Peterson waved a dismissive arm. “The police won’t help her. Their only understanding of what you call kidnapping is that it is invariably followed by a demand for money. That’s not going to happen, Mr Andrews. After all, you have very little money. All your worth is in your DNA. So you see, once there is no ransom demand, the police will very quickly lose interest. Despite all your wife’s protestations, they will think you’ve run away with some lover. I don’t know if your wife knows about your special characteristics or not. If she does, she’s hardly going to tell the police – they’d think she’s completely crazy. And if she doesn’t know, well, she can’t offer that as an explanation.

  “So the short answer to your request is ‘no’. There will be no contacting your wife, either tonight or in the future.”

  John stared at Peterson, trying to gather his thoughts and think of a way he could deal with his predicament. He looked around the room and through the windows in the direction of the large building he had seen when they arrived.

  “What exactly is this place, Peterson? You’ve talked about biochemistry and genetics; is it some sort of secret laboratory?”

  Peterson laughed. “There is nothing secret about it, Mr Andrews. Well, most of it, anyway. Peterson Biotech is a world leader in research into genetic-based diseases and in developing probes for that research. Our turnover is measured in billions of pounds.

  “I was even knighted for my contribution in keeping British genetics research at the cutting edge,” he added, feigning modesty.

  “And all that happens here?” asked John incredulously.

  “Oh heavens, no. Our production facilities are positioned at various locations around the country and our research teams similarly spread among the leading universities. What goes on here is rather special. Here we have a small cadre of dedicated scientists working on groundbreaking genetic research into a number of areas. Naturally, their work is secret; that is the nature of such research. But at the centre of that group we have Dr Frobisher’s team who, er, seek out particular avenues of interest that are emerging and direct their progress to ensure that opportunities are not lost.”

  “You mean you steal other people’s ideas and claim them as your own.”

  Peterson laughed coldly. “You really are a very cynical man, Mr Andrews.”

  “So what exactly is it that you want with me?” said John. “How do I fit in with your machinations?”

  Peterson pointed towards the sheaf of papers on the desk.

  “The results contained in those papers are what has got us so excited about you, Mr Andrews. We need to verify them, but that will only be the beginning. We want to know the limits of your condition: exactly how immune you are to a wide spectrum of conditions. Not only bacterial infections and viruses, but other factors too. Those that attack the body by altering its DNA – cancers, exposure to radiation, that sort of thing.”

  He smiled. “There are so many ways you can help us directly to come to a better understanding of how it all works. And Dr Frobisher here can’t wait to begin. To that end, she has put together a panel of preliminary tests she wishes to conduct tonight before we move onto some more profound considerations tomorrow.”

  John looked down, weighing the glass he still had in his hand. He shook his head. “No, Peterson, you won’t be doing any tests on me, not tonight or at any time.”

  With one fluid movement, as fast as when he had thrown a knife in the past, he flung the glass directly at Peterson’s head, taking him completely by surprise. The heavy crystal glass caught him squarely on the bridge of his nose and right eye, shattering with the impact and cutting deeply into the skin. Blood flowed immediately from the wounds and Peterson yelled in pain. As his hand instinctively shot up to his face, the shards of broken glass lacerated his fingers, adding to his pain. Hannah Frobisher screamed in shock.

  John didn’t wait to see any of this. As the glass left his hand, he leaped to his feet and ran to the hall doors. He flung them open, running from the room before either of the two guards waiting on the terrace had time to react.

  At the sound of the commotion in the room, the third guard in the hall leapt to his feet. John knew he was there and he skidded to a halt in front of him, raising his fists defensively. The man smiled derisively and lunged at John. John swayed and landed three hard punches on the man’s face, knocking him off his feet. As John darted past him and grabbed the handle of the main door, a shot rang out and a bullet whistled passed his ear, splintering the doorframe.

  “Stop there, Andrews!” a voice commanded, but John ignored it and pulled open the door.

  Outside, unexpectedly, was Martin who, as soon as he’d heard Peterson yell, had run round the outside of the house from the terrace. John hardly had time to register the large man’s presence when he found himself lifted off his feet by a powerful punch to the stomach. Completely winded, he collapsed to the ground. Martin turned him onto his face, grabbed his wrists and handcuffed him in one well-practised movement.

  Gasping for breath, John found himself being hauled to his feet and half carried back into the hallway. Jeffrey had arrived at the door and he pointed the gun threateningly at John’s head, while the third man, whose nose was bleeding heavily, looked about to take a swing.

  “Enough!” Peterson boomed from the sitting room door, his voice muffled by a large, heavily bloodstained handkerchief he was clasping to his face. “Bring him back in here! Hannah, go and get the wheelchair!”

  Still wheezing from the punch to his stomach, John was dragged back into the room.

  “That was very stupid, Mr Andrews, very stupid indeed!” yelled Peterson angrily. “Your rashness has succeeded only in defining exactly how we shall deal with you from now on. Martin, secure him to that!” He pointed to the wheelchair Hannah Frobisher had retrieved from a nearby room.

  Martin spun John round and undid the handcuffs, grabbing an arm firmly and twisting it down, forcing him to sit heavily in the chair. Before he had time to react, both John’s wrists were cuffed to the chair’s arms, his legs tied together and fixed to the foot supports. A belt was then threaded round his chest, under his armpits, and secured at the back. He couldn’t move.

  He looked up at the confusion around him and smiled grimly to himself. Peterson was bleeding heavily and would require several stitches to his nose and eyebrow, while the guard from the hallway’s right eye was bruised and half-closed, his nose bleeding.

  “Jeffrey!” commanded Peterson. “Go with Martin and Dr Frobisher to the laboratory. Hannah, you can take your samples whenever you’re ready; you will find your subject in no position to resist. But just to be sure, I suggest so
me sedation would be prudent.”

  John found himself being spun round towards the door and wheeled through the hallway to another door that led down a long corridor. Hannah Frobisher hurried on ahead and opened a door that led into a small laboratory. She instructed Martin to position John against a wall while she went to a bench where there were some surgical instruments, packets of syringes and vials of injection solutions. She picked up a syringe and assembled it, pushing the needle into one of the vials. As she slightly pressed the plunger to ensure there was no air in the solution, she called over to the two bodyguards.

  “Thanks, both of you. You can wait outside. Mr Andrews is in no position to do anything, so I shall be quite safe.”

  Jeffrey looked hesitant.

  “If you’re concerned, Jeffrey,” added Frobisher irritably, “you can watch through the windows from the laboratory next door.”

  Once they’d left, she turned to John.

  “As you’ve probably realised, Mr Andrews, Jeffrey and his colleagues are not privy to what we have found out about you. There is a need for total confidentiality.”

  “Then they must be wondering what the hell you are up to,” grunted John.

  She laughed. “Not at all. They think you are some sort of industrial spy; that you have stolen secrets from the company. Nothing more. There is no way they could ever comprehend the truth.”

  She paused and John watched her hovering with the syringe, still staring at his face.

  “What is it you find so fascinating about my face?” he snarled. “You’ve been staring at me like I’m some sort of freak all evening.”

  “Mr Andrews,” she said softly, “I’m aware that you are very old, possibly several hundred years old, in fact. Having seen the results of your DNA profiling and the genetic tests, I understand why it is that you haven’t aged, but seeing you in the flesh is still a shock. I suppose I’m searching for signs of ageing that aren’t there, simply because, despite understanding the science, it’s all so incredibly hard to believe.”

  John’s face remained expressionless. He refused to give her the satisfaction of admitting what they’d discovered about him was true and, given their intention of subjecting him to a battery of tests that he suspected could kill him, he was certainly not going to engage in any cozy conversation about himself.

  Unaware of the thoughts going through John’s mind, Hannah Frobisher continued.

  “That was quite a performance back there in the study, for anyone, let alone someone who is hundreds of years old. You’ve obviously picked up a few survival tricks over the years. Tell me – I’d love to know – what is your age?”

  John fixed his eyes onto hers. “As I told Peterson earlier, whatever these results are you’ve got from someone’s DNA, they are nothing to do with me. There has been a mistake; you’ve got the wrong person. There is nothing special about me apart from an ability to paint. You’ve got yourself mixed up in something very sinister, Miss Frobisher, and if you persist in this nonsense, you could end up in a lot of trouble. You are breaking the law and you’ll end up in prison. I suggest you exercise some damage limitation and let me go now. Maybe the detailed scrutiny you’ve been directing to my face should tell you the obvious: I look like a man of forty because I am a man of forty.”

  Hannah Frobisher shrugged. “As you wish, Mr Andrews.”

  She pulled up his sleeve, found a vein in his arm and inserted the needle.

  John glanced up at her one last time as the room started to spin and then went black.